i have a love/hate relationship with my job and with life. mostly, i hate how little time and energy it provides me for this kind of thing. sometimes, it is as though i am on forced sabbatical from my writing, and i get frustrated and angry. in my head and heart, though, i know that it's only temporary, and the time invested here will serve me well when i turn starving and unemployed, haha. so here is a small peace offering for the past few weeks' absence.
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'red leaves'
i watched a man take a flower to his daughter's grave today. it was by accident, i suppose you could say: i was simply on the way home, and passing, when the bright red leaves of this particular tree, poking ever so slightly over a tall concrete wall, caught my eye. i had to take a look. it was beautiful, those vibrant crimson leaves already odd in the early spring morning.
the tree herself was hidden behind the wall, her leaves the very fingertips of her withered hands, delicately resting atop and draping over the faux-stone. she was an old tree, to be sure. wrinkled bark worn, the years' passing weathered in the curve of her limbs; spinster of seasons. i was enthralled; to the point that i didn't notice him until he was only a few feet away. the old man was bent and marked by time as the tree, and shuffled out of my view around the wall. i followed.
just around the edge of the wall, though, i could see the tree for all she was: the guardian of a small graveyard. a courtyard of headstones, miniature obelisks, and the tiny stone humans draped in red that serve as this country's wards for the too-young dead. the elderly mistress watching over the last resting place of those too young for this, too young, too young. even the wind was quiet, here.
the old man was making his way, gently, along the farthest wall. past rows of stone jizobosatsu in red bibs, each perhaps eight inches tall. stillborn in single file. leaves the colour of broken hearts...
i have a love/hate relationship with my job and with life. mostly, i hate how little time and energy it provides me for this kind of thing. sometimes, it is as though i am on forced sabbatical from my writing, and i get frustrated and angry. in my head and heart, though, i know that it's only temporary, and the time invested here will serve me well when i turn starving and unemployed, haha. so here is a small peace offering for the past few weeks' absence.
---
'red leaves'
i watched a man take a flower to his daughter's grave today. it was by accident, i suppose you could say: i was simply on the way home, and passing, when the bright red leaves of this particular tree, poking ever so slightly over a tall concrete wall, caught my eye. i had to take a look. it was beautiful, those vibrant crimson leaves already odd in the early spring morning.
the tree herself was hidden behind the wall, her leaves the very fingertips of her withered hands, delicately resting atop and draping over the faux-stone. she was an old tree, to be sure. wrinkled bark worn, the years' passing weathered in the curve of her limbs; spinster of seasons. i was enthralled; to the point that i didn't notice him until he was only a few feet away. the old man was bent and marked by time as the tree, and shuffled out of my view around the wall. i followed.
just around the edge of the wall, though, i could see the tree for all she was: the guardian of a small graveyard. a courtyard of headstones, miniature obelisks, and the tiny stone humans draped in red that serve as this country's wards for the too-young dead. the elderly mistress watching over the last resting place of those too young for this, too young, too young. even the wind was quiet, here.
the old man was making his way, gently, along the farthest wall. past rows of stone jizobosatsu in red bibs, each perhaps eight inches tall. stillborn in single file. leaves the colour of broken hearts scattered across the pebbles and dirt, here and there resting lightly on one grave or another. those would be swept up and discarded in a matter of hours; at least, for now the leaves lay where they had fallen. a touch of the real, of the messiness of life. a grey-breasted starling hopped lightly across the gravel and moss, pecking and probing, oblivious to either of our human presences.
the old man continued along, stopping only at the very last statue in the row, in the farthest corner of the little courtyard. a small headstone sat next to the jizo, almost hidden by those beside it, and shaded from the morning sun by the converging walls.
he stood for minutes, motionless except for the barest rise and fall of his sunken chest, breathing in the smell of the dirt and the tree's fallen leaves. i shuffled my feet, nervous. i felt... profane. like i was intruding, disturbing something personal and private.
something i hadn't noticed: a stem protruding from a hand cupped against the chest. long, and green; fresh-plucked, then, or well-kept by the florist. a quiet voice in my heart said it was the former. long, the stem, and green; all that could be seen, until he uncupped his hand. i could see the delicately drooping petals, white and specked with what seemed to be red droplets. he held the lily as though porcelain, which i'm sure to his mind it was, and stood still once more.
i felt increasingly alien and out-of-place the longer he stood, silent. i had no cause to be here, no reason besides my curiosity; and no excuse, at all, to be so intruding on this rite. for a rite it was, as he solemnly knelt and lay the lily, pale and bloodied, on the grave. the morning was still cool, the sun yet to reach this little corner, but my shiver had nothing to do with the cold.
my mother lost a child, between my sister and i. we spoke about it maybe once. like most other subjects she would rather avoid, she was terribly matter-of-fact and succinct about it. my parents had met relatively late in their lives. there was always going to be some measure of risk to her pregnancies. she was going to have a baby; it didn't happen. no bitterness, and very little hurt showing, although the abrupt change of topic to more mundane subjects told me, even at my self-absorbed age of fifteen, that there were feelings buried here that i would rather not disturb.
the starling startled, suddenly taking to the air in a burst of feather and fright. it surprised me. its wings aflutter were, to my intruding ears, a gunshot ringing and ricocheting around the garden of stone. i couldn't help but watch as it took off through the lower branches of the old tree, alighting higher up, backed by what was becoming a brilliant azure morning sky.
when i looked back, the old man had straightened, and was looking right at me. the sunlight now fell almost directly on his face, making his eyes an uncommon and eerie golden-brown. i just stood there. riveted, as though seven years old again and found out in a lie. the cool breeze died, and the stone memorial garden became incredibly still.
he gave an ever-so-slight nod of the head, and the spell broke. my presence forgotten again, or ignored, he turned to the corner and knelt one more time. the starling twittered, and rustled feathers and leaves. i backed out slowly, the view disappearing once again around the corner of the wall, until i could see only stone and the crimson leaves of the old matron tree draped atop them.
then i turned and walked away, fast, without looking back; feet moving as quickly as the heavy, clumsy things could.
---
peace.
---
'red leaves'
i watched a man take a flower to his daughter's grave today. it was by accident, i suppose you could say: i was simply on the way home, and passing, when the bright red leaves of this particular tree, poking ever so slightly over a tall concrete wall, caught my eye. i had to take a look. it was beautiful, those vibrant crimson leaves already odd in the early spring morning.
the tree herself was hidden behind the wall, her leaves the very fingertips of her withered hands, delicately resting atop and draping over the faux-stone. she was an old tree, to be sure. wrinkled bark worn, the years' passing weathered in the curve of her limbs; spinster of seasons. i was enthralled; to the point that i didn't notice him until he was only a few feet away. the old man was bent and marked by time as the tree, and shuffled out of my view around the wall. i followed.
just around the edge of the wall, though, i could see the tree for all she was: the guardian of a small graveyard. a courtyard of headstones, miniature obelisks, and the tiny stone humans draped in red that serve as this country's wards for the too-young dead. the elderly mistress watching over the last resting place of those too young for this, too young, too young. even the wind was quiet, here.
the old man was making his way, gently, along the farthest wall. past rows of stone jizobosatsu in red bibs, each perhaps eight inches tall. stillborn in single file. leaves the colour of broken hearts...